THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
Evidently they had been haranguing on deck. They were still arguing as they came in. Vaguely William heard "Nineveh" and "excavations" and "authority." The bone of contention seemed to be the restorations of Shalmaneser I. Finally the audience of one opened his eyes and leaned sleepily over the edge of his bunk. By this time one of the patriarchs was violently waving his shirt to drive home his point.
"Want a referee?" William asked, gently.
The two old fellows looked up, blank of eye.
"Who is this guy, anyhow?"
"Who, Shalmaneser?"
"Ye-ah."
"He was one of the kings of Assyria."
"Well, say! I thought maybe he was that new Dutchman who's after Hans Wagner's left mitt."
"Frightful ignorance!" grumbled the shirt-waver.
Clausen smiled. "Shalmaneser was born thirteen hundred b.c."
"That lets me out," declared the unregenerate one. "What's the matter with writing one of his descendants and putting the bet up to him? I wouldn't lose any sleep over a guy that's been dead all that time."
Old Clausen laughed. "I am sorry we waked you, Mr. Grogan."
"Passed by the censor," replied William, bunching his pillows anew.
"Sleep? Well, that's reasonable," mumbled
72
